Lead Me Not Into Temptation
by Sakuri
Summary: No matter what he does, Dean can't seem to help encouraging Castiel to fall from grace. Destiel slash. Oneshot. Complete.


**Title**: Lead Me Not Into Temptation

**Author**: Sakuri

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: No matter what he does, Dean can't seem to help but encourage Castiel to fall from grace.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and no one.

xxx

Sometimes, Dean is ashamed of the things he makes Castiel do.

It's not intentional. Not at first. They're not even things he'd give a second thought to with anyone else, anyone who wasn't a fucking _angel_. They're just little incidents, to start off with, harmless in the greater scheme of things.

But something in him can't get past the fact that he's making an _angel _sin, and in varied and creative new ways.

The first time had been active encouragement on his part, back when he'd taken Cas to the infamous 'den of iniquity'. At the time, it hadn't even occurred to him that he was doing something inappropriate. Dude was a virgin. Dean's go-to instinct was to right that particularly appalling wrong.

Sometimes, remembering it, he wonders how he'd missed the _expression _Cas had worn. Alright, so he'd seen it, he just hadn't _seen _it, yanno? There'd been fear there, bemusement and confusion, like he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do next. But – hello, _virgin_. It was the same look seen on every high-strung adolescent wondering if he could get away with groping his prom date. Normal. Nothing to worry about.

Only in retrospect did he ever bother to look a little closer, to see the flash of betrayal on the angel's face as Dean had sent him off with a wad of cash, a slap on the back and a cheap hooker.

In retrospect, he's glad Cas managed to screw it up.

But other stuff came after that. Smaller things. Things he couldn't bring himself to think of as _bad_, necessarily. Until, of course, he put them all together and realised the dozens of tiny little human vices he'd introduced to an angel of the freakin' Lord.

He got him drunk, once. And man had that taken some effort. Turns out angels can really hold their liquor. Who knew? Only afterwards, when Cas had already drank _at least _twice his body weight in alcohol and was leaning contentedly against his shoulder, loose-limbed in a way he never usually permitted himself to be, did Dean have a flashback – flashforward? – to 2014. He'd blinked down at the intoxicated angel, vividly remembering the drug-addled Castiel of a possible future, and felt something sharp twist in his gut. Future-Cas had kind of broken his heart a little bit (even though he'd never say as much, because he wasn't a fucking girl. Or Sam).

Guiltily, he'd taken Cas away from the bar and back to the motel after that revelation. Not that it had done any good. Damage was already done, after all.

The angel had stared at him blurrily the entire ride back, funny little expression plastered all over his face, some kind of derivative of his customary intense look of concentration, this one edged with something like puzzlement. Dean had done his best to ignore it, even as he'd manhandled a drunken Cas up to their room and tossed him down on the bed that would have been Dean's. That was when Cas had murmured his name in a vaguely shocked voice, like he'd finally come to a revelation, his hands tangling in Dean's shirt and almost succeeding in dragging him down onto the bed with him.

Freaked – not least because of the moment of bright, startling temptation that had hit him hard in that instant – Dean had ended up sleeping in the backseat of the Impala that night.

But knowledge was a burden in and of itself, and it wasn't like either of them could up and _forget _the incident. Not once it was out in the open, this uncomfortable _thing _between them. He'd catch the angel watching him, sometimes, and he'd _know_. Worse: _Cas _would know. His expression would visibly shift to something uncertain and embarrassed and a little ashamed. Dean would inevitably experience a pang of self-loathing, because he'd done that. He was responsible. Not for making Cas want him, but for making Cas _realise _he wanted him. He thought it was supposed to be the original sin or something, knowledge. And he'd gone and inflicted it on an angel.

Sometimes he wonders if things had even had a chance of turning out differently, after that.

But mostly he prefers not to speculate.

Things just kept on getting worse, no matter what preventative measures he took. Castiel had always been pretty subversive for an angel, but now he was actively rebelling, actively _waging war _against his own kind on behalf of the Winchester brothers. On behalf of _Dean_. It was necessary, of course, and Dean couldn't help but feel sickly grateful that he had the angel's loyalty, his devotion, yet at the same time he came very close to resenting it. Because he knew, they both knew, what Cas wanted in return, and he couldn't bring himself to give it. He was _Castiel_, who'd once threatened with chilling calm to hurl Dean back into Hell if he didn't show respect. Cas, who teleported and telepathised and time-travelled like it was no big deal, but who couldn't use a cell phone to save his damn life.

The angel was a bewildering mix of scary-as-all-fuck and perversely childish innocence, and Dean liked to think he was smart enough to stay away from things that came with as many warning signs as Castiel.

He started picking up girls from diners and bars again, wanting Cas to get the picture without actually having to come out and say it. To say the least, it didn't go over well. Any time he stayed out with one or another of them, he'd return to the motel room to find Cas apparently waiting for him. As soon as Dean crossed the threshold, he was met with that odd mannerism the angel had of cocking his head and pinning him with a look like distilled disappointment. Sometimes Sam would be sitting up with him, and would add his carefully honed bitchface to the silent assault. Then, with an almost vicious flare of shadowed wings, Cas would be gone and Dean would be left feeling like someone had sucker-punched him.

That was how he managed to teach Cas the sin of jealousy.

Wrath came next, when Dean wasn't quick enough on giving up the tactic.

Cas cornered him one night, when he'd still been smelling of beer and smoke and perfume, when it had been just them, with no Sam to act as buffer or even witness, and Dean had had to stop himself from flinching because Cas would never stop being fucking _scary _when he wanted to be. He'd let the angel take him by the shoulders, his hand settling over the brand on his flesh in wordless reminder. He'd let him rage and hiss and spit his frustration over everything, not just Dean but _everything_. They were living through a fucking apocalypse, through a war between Heaven and Hell while fighting not to take either side. Fuck, Dean understood the need for an outlet, and he didn't mind giving _this _nearly as much as giving the other thing Cas wanted from him. So he'd stood there and taken every angry, bitter word the angel had thrown at him, and it had felt like penitence.

Then Cas had kissed him, just as angry, just as bitter, and it was all shot to hell.

The bitch of it was he _could _want, could quite easily want, exactly what Cas was offering, if he let himself. Hell, it wasn't even a question of 'letting' himself. That was clearly a ship already sailed, if the way he'd kissed back for those few frenzied seconds was anything to judge by. What he didn't want, though, was to be responsible for ruining something else. Ruining Castiel. He didn't want the angel to fall.

Cas had just looked up at him and asked if it wasn't a bit late for that.

And really, what else was there to say?

Whatever he is, it's not the Righteous Man they think he is, that Cas thinks he is. If he was, he would have said no. Would have protested that this was one sin too many, for both of them. Would have done _something_, other than crumble under the weight of the angel's desperation.

Castiel kissed like he'd never done it before, unskilled and slightly clumsy and so unlike the girls he was used to with their clever, clever mouths. Didn't matter. This was better. This was god damned perfect, because Cas was... untouched.

Something dark and unpleasant twisted in him at that thought, some residual glitch left over from Hell (or maybe even before, if he's being brutally honest) and he remembered the souls Alistair placed out before him, untouched like blank canvases, waiting for him to make his mark, to paint them with blood and lust and fire.

It was like that now, and it's exactly what Dean had been trying to avoid, hadn't wanted to be responsible for, because Castiel was pure, _clean_, and to be permitted this close meant he wanted nothing more than to place his stained hands upon the angel and mark him, like a signature.

So he pressed his mouth to chaste flesh and breathed lust into him, wondering distantly if Cas had the full set of deadly sins yet.

And then there was no stopping it. Methodically, he went to work stripping down every barrier and defence he could find: the trench coat and the smart slacks and the knotted tie, moving on to all the invisible layers underneath when there were no more clothes left. The stoicism and the hesitancy and the innocence: just dragged his fingers over Cas' skin and tore it all away. The angel fell to pieces beneath his hands, like Dean had taken away everything that supported him, everything that held him together, and even then he begged for it to continue. _Begged_. Castiel would never have begged before.

Unable to help himself with Cas in motion beneath him – not just falling now but fucking _plummeting_, his momentum dragging Dean down just as fast – he wanted to spread the angel out before him, open him up and see everything there was to hide, just like Cas had seen him at his worst. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to look for, what the hell Cas possibly had left to give him, only that he had to have it.

The angel had shuddered against him when he'd come for the first time, pressing his face into Dean's neck like he was afraid, whispering nonsense things with an awed sort of reverence, like he'd just been shown a brand new Heaven. Dean had closed his eyes and carefully not said anything back, because he was pretty sure they'd both seen the last of Heaven, after that.

He thinks maybe he stole something from Cas in that moment when they started this thing they have, whatever it is. And it's just yet another glitch in him that gives a thrill of proprietary pleasure at the notion, that makes him covetously gather close his stolen prize.

He'd thrown away the Enochian necklace a while ago, but these days he gets to wear Castiel's grace around his neck in its place.


End file.
